


when facing demons

by thompsborn



Series: to build a family [9]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Peter Parker Angst, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Flash Thompson, Protective Harley Keener, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, confronting your past abuser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thompsborn/pseuds/thompsborn
Summary: Peter notices the vague tingle at the base of his skull when he’s making his way down the hall, heading from one class to the next. It’s not very strong, it doesn’t scream at him to run, fight, hide—it’s just a little whisper, something telling him that something doesn’t feel right. A warning.He shrugs it off. There’s nothing to be worried about, anyway.In hindsight, there really is no one to blame but himself.-make sure to mind the tags
Relationships: Harley Keener & Flash Thompson, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harry Osborn/Flash Thompson, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones, Peter Parker & Ned Leeds, Peter Parker & Skip Westcott, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: to build a family [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1366759
Comments: 39
Kudos: 682





	when facing demons

**Author's Note:**

> this wasn't fun to write, but it felt necessary for the series.
> 
> peter's trauma caused by skip has played a mild yet consistent part in this series - he has mentioned it multiple times, and has reminisced on it in passing, because he never properly faced it. he pushes the thoughts away and ignores them.
> 
> peter views what happened with skip as skip "ruining" him. he said as much in earning a place.
> 
> i feel - and a couple people in the comments seem to agree with me - that peter needs proper closure and to actually process his trauma.
> 
> that's what this is supposed to be. his gateway to really getting better.

Sometimes, Spidey senses are a hinderance.

Peter is grateful for them—he would be an idiot to not be grateful for the warning he gets when danger is ahead. It has quite literally saved his life and his limbs while on patrol and fighting the big baddies that seem to be dead set on fucking up Spider-Man’s day. Being able to sense things that he never could before, that no one else can… it’s good. It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s good.

The obvious downside is when those senses go into overdrive and give him overloads—though, obvious or not, it’s still pretty fucking shitty.

The not too obvious downside is when his Spidey sense decides that being nervous for a history test is reason enough to make the back of his neck tingle with a sense of danger so insistently that, by the time his test comes around, he has a migraine and can barely focus his eyes enough to see the words on the page. Not that anyone really knows this, because—well, he doesn’t like sharing things that other people will inevitably worry about. He kept his sensory overloads a secret for almost a year, and the only reason it isn’t still a secret now is because he ended up having an overload in front of Harley, which led to Tony finding out, when led to an entire protocol being put into place for whenever he has them, no matter how rare that usually is. And that’s a big part of why he tries to keep this shit a secret. He doesn’t like worrying people, doesn’t like stressing them out with any of his issues. He has no doubt that, if Tony were to catch wind of Peter’s Spidey sense giving him migraines, he’d spend weeks holed up in his lab until he found a solution, but he’d also have a migraine of his own and his back would hurt and Peter would rather not cause his father figure that kind of ache. His guilty conscience is bad enough as is.

But, all of that aside, it inevitably comes down to this: when he’s at school, he doesn’t pay very close attention to his Spidey senses—unless, of course, they’re going absolutely haywire. A slight tingle at the back of his neck, a general sense of slight unease and discomfort, feeling the need to glance over his shoulder when he walks down the hall? He’s pretty used to that now. It doesn’t happen every day, and sometimes it doesn’t even happen every week, but it’s been years and it happens enough that he just doesn’t really question it when his senses decide that there’s some kind of threat that isn’t there.

In the end, it’s his own fault, really, that he’s so unprepared.

Sometimes, past Midtown graduates get together and pick a random day to come visit the school. They see old teachers, tell tales to the students—more often than not, boasting at how well they did in college and then glossing over their less than ideal jobs, because the job market is hell, even with the impressive educations that they all undoubtedly have—and sometimes mingle in the halls or in the cafeteria to reminisce on good memories, on bad memories, flunked tests and field trips and everything in between.

Peter’s never really seen the point in these visits, but he supposes it’s pretty cool, seeing all of these people who once walked the halls that he does now. Plus, when one of the visitors winds up crashing one of Peter’s classes, he ends up going home with less homework and gets to spend that period hearing stories that he doesn’t really care about, but—it’s a small break from school work, so he’s grateful.

About three months before the end of senior year, a group of past students filter into the office to get guest passes, and Peter’s deadline for the essay that he meant to finish last night but fell asleep on gets pushed back until tomorrow, and he’s feeling pretty happy about it. Light, floaty, listening to the tales of Miss Warren and Mr. Harrington and all of his teachers, laughing at the embarrassing stories and playing on his phone when he starts to feel bored.

(Him and Harley aren’t texting today. Or, rather, they aren’t sending _words._ Their conversation consists of nothing but crying cat memes and cursed Kermit pictures, and Peter can’t stop smiling at the screen, even when they’re quite literally sitting right next to each other and still sending these shit posts.

Soulmates are, perhaps, a reality. Peter’s pretty sure that’s what they are.)

Peter notices the vague tingle at the base of his skull when he’s making his way down the hall, heading from one class to the next. It’s not very strong, it doesn’t scream at him to run, fight, hide—it’s just a little whisper, something telling him that something doesn’t feel right. A warning.

He shrugs it off. There’s nothing to be worried about, anyway.

In hindsight, there really is no one to blame but himself.

He’s in the hall. That’s important to note.

He’s _alone_ in the hall. That’s even more important.

The tingling has intensified—not enough to draw proper concern, but enough that Peter’s definitely feeling on edge, just a bit more nervous. Nervous to the point that he’s considering texting Tony or letting Harley or Ned know, just so there’s some extra eyes on the school, as well, but if he does that and there’s no danger, there’s no way the geniuses in his life won’t piece together the fact that Spidey senses are a bitch and all the hard work Peter’s put into hiding that very fact. So, he hasn’t spoken up yet, though, if it gets any worse, he’s planning to let someone know. Just to be safe.

(He’ll laugh about that, down the line. The assumption that he’ll ever really be safe, as if his past hasn’t proven to him that safety is a privilege he’ll never really have. The laughter won’t last very long.)

It’s while he’s placing his books in his locker, running a little late to lunch because of needing to use the bathroom after class, that his senses flare—suddenly, blindingly, to the point that all he can think to do is spin around the frantically scan the hall, expecting to find a gun in his face of a villain lurking in the shadows, but it’s empty. It’s empty—until someone turns the corner. One of the visitors, one of the past students, looking down at their phone, one hand in their pocket, the epitome of calm and casual. Peter can’t help but stare at the top of their head, confused—there’s no apparent threat in this person, no visible reason for Peter’s senses to be screaming at him the way that they are.

No reason, until the person, likely feeling eyes on them, glances up, and it’s a face that Peter knows. It’s a face he hasn’t seen in person for years—a face that haunts the corners of his nightmares.

Skip Westcott doesn’t recognize Peter at first, and if Peter was able to, he would close his locker and walk away before he could, but Peter’s frozen in place, petrified, feeling, suddenly, like the helpless twelve year old boy who never knew how to fight back and didn’t know how to speak up until Tony Stark’s victory against the Mandarin reminded him that even heroes can struggle, but they can still win.

That reminder isn’t enough right now. It isn’t enough to make him move, to make him run the way he desperately wants to. He’s stuck, feet feeling like cement, rooted in this one spot, heart thundering in his chest with anger and disgust and fear. Skip stares back, confused—and then, recognition.

A smile. Small, devious— _victorious._

Peter feels, suddenly, like he never really won at all.

Flash doesn’t pretend to be a hero—doesn’t know the first thing about what being a hero really means. He idolizes Spider-Man, sure (because, really, who wouldn’t?) and, thanks to becoming friends with Peter and Harley and all of them at the start of their senior year, he now knows most of the Avengers (though Spider-Man is not one of them yet), but that doesn’t really give him any more insight than he had before. He sees what heroes are like when there isn’t a battle to be won, when they can lounge around in sweatpants or dress up for New Years Eve or throw grapes at each other as they bicker back and forth. He doesn’t see the way determination glimmers in their eyes, doesn’t see the sudden acceptance that this could be their last fight, that, eventually, there fill be a final day and they never know when it will happen.

Heroes, to him, are undefinable people. He aspires to be one, someday, in whatever way he can.

He never expected that day to be today. He never thought that this would be how, either. Above all else, he knows that he’ll inevitably look back and wish that it could have been any other way.

The halls are mostly empty as he walks them—the rest of his friends are at lunch, with everyone else in their grade, and anyone who isn’t at lunch is currently in class. So, save for the spare straggler, he’s met with vacancy as he makes his way towards the bathroom. He’s walking a little farther than he has to, he knows—there’s a bathroom by the cafeteria, too, but that’s where everyone is going right now, and he doesn’t like how all the noise echoes in there when so many people occupy it. It’s worth the stroll, he thinks, to head over to the bathrooms by the office instead. No line, and it’s quieter. Both good things.

As he walks, he starts to hear voices—kind of soft, like they’re trying to be quiet, but they still echo in the silence of the halls. Flash frowns, but doesn’t think a whole lot of it, until— “Get away from me.”

Peter’s voice. And he sounds terrified.

It’s odd, really, to think about the fact that, two years ago, Flash only spoke to Peter to make fun of him. (It’s even more odd to think that, only one year ago, he was hardcore crushing on Peter and Harley.) Back then, he never would have thought that he’d start sprinting down the hall while fumbling his phone out of his pocket because it sounds like Peter’s in some kind of trouble. He never would have thought that he’d be in a group chat in Peter that isn’t for decathlon, a group chat that also has Ned and MJ and Harley and Harry, and he never would have thought that he’d send an SOS in that very group chat to let everyone know that it sounds like somethings wrong.

But what he really never expected—what he never would have been able to guess—is turning that last corner and skidding to a stop so suddenly that he almost trips over his feet, stomach twisting and throat closing and eyes going wide because—because there’s Peter, pressing himself back into his still open locker, looking pale and visibly trembling, while some guy who’s definitely in his mid-20’s stalks closer to him with a sickening sort of smirk, a look in his eyes that Flash can recognize so quickly, it hurts.

“Go away,” Peter says again, voice shaking. _“Go away,_ Skip. I mean it.”

The guy—Skip, apparently—cocks his head slightly to the side. “I don’t think you want me going anywhere, Einstein. After all, I haven’t seen you in five years. It’s about time we catch up, huh?”

Peter flinches so hard at the nickname that his head hits the open locker door, and it’s the sound of the door then clanging against the other lockers, the metal hitting metal and ringing out in the air, that snaps Flash out of his shock and has him surging forward, shouting, “Hey!” as he does. Skip lurches in surprise, eyes turning towards Flash with nothing but disinterest in his eyes. He seems unbothered, as if he was having a normal conversation and wasn’t causing Flash’s friend to look two seconds away from passing out in fear. Flash doesn’t stop moving forward until he’s pushed his way in between them, creating a barrier, arms spread out to make sure there’s no way for Skip to side step around him and get to Peter.

“I was talking to him,” Skip casually drawls, quirking a brow and crossing his arms over his chest.

“And now you’re done,” Flash snarls. “He said to go away, asshole. So go the fuck away.”

Frustratingly, Skip only seems amused by this, glancing over Flash’s shoulder to get a look at Peter. Flash shifts, blocks his view even further, forcing Skip to look back at him. “Did he now?

Flash doesn’t know who this guy is, doesn’t know why Peter is shaking like a chihuahua at his presence alone, but he’s already seen and heard enough to want to give him a black eye/ Eyes narrowing down into a glare, Flash bares his teeth and says, “If you don’t fucking leave, I’m calling the cops.”

“Ooh, terrifying,” Skip says with a chuckle. “And what would you tell them, hm? Not like I’ve done anything wrong. I’m just trying to talk to an old friend. Isn’t that right, Einstein?”

“Don’t—” Peter speaks up, voice sharp. “Do _not_ call me that.”

There’s so much venom in his tone, the terror being overshadowed by genuine rage, that Flash can’t help but feel a zap of surprise run down his spine, and he wants to look back, to glance over his shoulder, just to get a read of whatever’s flittering around on Peter’s features, but he feels like taking his eyes off of Skip could lead to disaster. So, he keeps his eyes trained on the asshole, watching as the guy lets out another light laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “When’d you get so feisty, Pete? You never used to talk back like this when we’d hang you. Matter of fact, you were a little angel. Always did what I said.”

There’s another metallic clang, like Peter is trying to move further away and hit the open locker door again, but the noise isn’t loud enough to drown out the multiple footsteps and the squeaking of sneakers that are approaching, and then—thank god, Flash things—Harley skids around the corner, eyes frantic and worried. Ned and Michelle are right behind him, and Flash knows that, if Harry was at Midtown with the rest of them, he’d be right on their heels, as well.

Harley moves forward quickly, trying to scan the scene with narrowed eyes, suspiciously looking at Skip before glancing over Flash’s stance, and then landing on Peter, stopping on him for a few quick moments, and it’s blatantly clear he just wants to rush over and hug him or something, but he also seems to know that he needs to have a better grasp of the situation in order to know what to do about it. So, though he’s clearly reluctant to do so, Harley looks back at Skip and asks, “Who the hell is this?”

“This is ridiculous,” Skip scoffs—not answering the question. “I can’t even talk to you without the cavalry showing up, huh? But I guess it’s an improvement—you didn’t have any friends back then.”

Harley clenches his jaw, but doesn’t respond, instead looking at Flash with a quirked brow, searching for an answer. Flash has to force himself to stop grinding his teeth, to take a few sharp breaths in an attempt to calm down his protective anger, but he still spits out, “Peter called him Skip.”

Ned and Michelle share a look, noses scrunched up in confusion, but Harley—as soon as the name drops from the tip of Flash’s tongue, something in Harley’s features become alight with an anger that Flash has never seen before. He looks furious, and, within seconds, he’s surging forward and pushing Skip back, back, putting more space between him and Peter, and then standing there, creating an even bigger barrier. “Ned,” Harley says, tone calm despite the tension in his stance. “Red button. Now.”

Flash looks over, eyes wide, arms coming together to brush fingers against the bracelet on his wrist—the one that he was gifted a few months after worming his way into their friend group, with the blue button, for small emergencies, and the red one, for Tony Stark level emergencies. For Avenger level emergencies. Ned and Michelle are just as wide eyed as he is, and it only takes a few seconds of sharing bewildered looks before all three of them use their finger prints to open the panel and give them access to the buttons. “Uh—” Ned stops. “How many? How, uh—how big is this?”

“Three,” Harley responds, without hesitation—and that’s even more mind boggling. Pressing the button three times? That sends an alert to everyone. But, Harley knows not to do it unless it’s necessary, and they know not to question the request, so they all three follow through, calling in the big guns. Instantly, Flash can feel his bracelet start to vibrate in a pattern, spelling Ned’s name in Morse code, then Flash’s, then Michelle’s. It keeps vibrating after that, too—spells out emergency.

If Flash thought this was serious before, it’s well beyond serious now.

Skip looks confused, but still unbothered, drawling out, “Do I even know you?”

“No,” Harley says, voice still, somehow, eerily calm. “But trust me, asshole, I know you. And I know what you did, too, so you might want to stop acting so cocky.”

“Oh, please, enlighten me,” Skip chuckles. “What, exactly, do you think I did.”

Harley bares his teeth. “That’s not my business to tell.”

“Whose is it, then?” Skip questions, quirking a brow, the end of his lips twitching into a smirk as his eyes flicker, seeking out Peter. “What’d you tell them, Einstein? Sounds like a bunch of lies to me.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Harley bites, voice no longer calm—filled, instantly, with venom and rage. “Don’t fucking look at him, you piece of shit, or I swear to fucking god—”

Before Harley can list off any of the threats that are clearly circling around his head, another voice speaks up—from before Flash, words coming out hoarse yet angry, saying, “I told Harley the truth. He knows what you did to me, Skip. So does May, and so did Ben. They know what you did.”

There’s a slight flash of something, maybe surprise, in Skip’s eyes. “You told them about our game?”

“It wasn’t—” Peter bites, suddenly pushing around Flash to be able to glare at Skip as he talks. “It wasn’t a game, Skip. You know it wasn’t a game. I know it wasn’t a game. You—hurt me. You—”

In the blink of an eye, Harley is moving, pushing Flash forward a bit to maintain the barrier between Skip and Peter, circling around to pull Peter into a hug just as Peter lets out a sob, latches onto Harley with a death grip as he starts to cry. Flash feels his heart clutch in his chest, aching as he keeps a sharp glare on Skip. The full story isn’t there, but it’s been confirmed by Peter, now—this asshole hurt him, at some point in time, in some kind of way. Flash assumed, before, but now it’s definite.

Ned and Michelle move closer, step up on either side of Flash—creating a sort of wall.

“I didn’t hurt you,” Skip says, looking amused again. “You loved our games. Admit it, Einstein.”

Instantly, Harley goes from hugging Peter to holding him back as he tries to lunge towards Skip, his eyes murderous. “No!” he shouts. “No, I—I hated it, I hated every second of it, but you—god! I hate you! I hate what you did to me! I hate—I—I hate that I still have nightmares about it, you fucking—”

“Hey,” Harley soothes, managing to tug Peter back into his chest. “Breathe, honey. You gotta breathe.”

“I can’t,” Peter croaks, tears rolling down his cheeks, glare steady. “I can’t—I hate him, I hate him.”

Harley tucks Peter’s head under his chin. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know. And you can tell him how much you hate him, you can hit him or scream at him or—whatever you want to do, okay? But I need you to breathe first, ‘cause you can’t do any of that if you have a panic attack.”

It seems to do the trick, because Peter nods, slightly, and takes in a stuttering breath. Skip rolls his eyes at them, and Flash can’t stop himself from griping, “Dude, I don’t think you realize how screwed you are.”

“How would I be screwed? I haven’t even done anything,” Skip says, rolling his eyes again.

Flash wants nothing more than to mention the panic button, wants to talk about the fact that the fucking _Avengers_ are probably on their way at this very second, just to see the color drain from Skip’s face, to see the way fear would flicker in his eyes—but, if he says it all now, Skip might try to run. He could get away. Flash refuses to be the reason that might happen, so he bites his tongue and glares even harder.

When Peter’s chest stops feeling so tight, he pulls back from Harley’s embrace. Harley looks at him, eyes worried, but Peter just offers a tense, somewhat forced smile and nods. There’s no words exchanged, but Harley seems to get it—Peter isn’t okay, but he needs to get this off his chest while he has the chance. There’ll be time for crying about it later, after Skip gets taken away.

Harley keeps a steady hand on Peter’s waist, a grounding point, a reminder that he’s right there and willing to interfere at any given moment, as Peter moves forward, until he’s standing right behind the wall that Flash, Michelle, and Ned have created, so that he can look Skip in the eyes while he talks. Skip cocks his head to the side, raises his brows, just slightly, and smiles. It’s a crooked smile, too. One that screams the fact the he got away with hurting Peter once. He thinks he’ll get away with it again. And it’s even more obvious in the way he says, “What’s your plan, Einstein? Lie your way into a law suit? Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m pretty sure I can afford a better lawyer than you.”

It would be easy to laugh at that—easy to dispute it, too, since Peter knows that Tony will happily call in SI’s legal team—but he doesn’t want to do that. At least, not yet. He has five years of nightmares and trauma in his bag, five years of thinking of all the things he wished he could say to Skip, and he wants to say it all. He wants to say it in the right way, too. One step at a time, until Skip realizes that he can’t win.

Until Skip is willing to beg for mercy at Peter’s feet.

“I’m going to talk,” Peter says, slowly and surely, managing, somehow, to keep his tone even, to keep his voice from wavering. “I’m going to talk, and you’re not going to interrupt me, because you—you took so much from me. You don’t get to take anything else, alright? So, just—just shut the fuck up and listen.”

Skip rolls his eyes again. “Why would I—?”

“Shut up!” Peter barks, taking another step forward, until there’s nothing but a foot of space and Flash’s arm separating them. Skip huffs, looking annoyed, but seems to realize he has no choice but to entertain this, clearly still in the assumption that he’ll be able to get away from all of this unscathed. Peter hates it, hates how confident Skip is, but he knows that it’ll change. So, he takes a deep, calming breath, and he doesn’t let the way his heart seizes in his chest stop him from making eye contact, from holding it despite the way his brain instantly remembers those very eyes hovering over him, always looking. Peter is filled with so much hatred that he’s scared it will rot inside of him, and he tries to convey just how much there is when he spits, “I fucking hate you. I—I can’t even put into words how much I hate you. Everything that you did, for—fucking months, you did it for months and you manipulated me into being quiet and you—you knew that I was grieving, because everyone was saying that my hero was dead, and you used that against me, you used me and I—I was twelve! I was twelve years old, Skip, and you—”

Harley squeezes Peter’s waist gently, a reminder to breathe, a reminder that he’s not alone. It helps, grounds him and allows the tightness in his chest to loosen, just slightly. Skip cocks an eyebrow, tilts his head to the side and, looking smug, says, “I didn’t do anything you didn’t want me to do.”

It makes Peter feel sick, makes his gut twist, but—an admission, of sorts. Skip just admitted that he did something. It’s horrible to hear, but it’s good, too. It makes Flash go stiff, though, and when Peter looks away, he sees the clock—the bell will be ringing soon. “You know that’s a lie.”

“Really? Is it?” Skip looks like he wants to take a step forward, but stop at Flash’s glare. “Tell me, then. Tell me exactly what I did that you didn’t want me to. Lay it all out for me.” When Peter doesn’t respond, Skip’s smile grows. “You can’t, can you? You can’t even list a single thing, because you _loved_ our games. Just admit it, Einstein. Tell me the truth.”

The bell rings then, sharp and sudden, but Peter doesn’t process it, doesn’t notice, doesn’t care. He only holds Skip’s gaze with his own, features becoming steeled over and cold. Students start to filter into the hall, only to stop and freeze at the scene, curious, unsure. Peter doesn’t pay them any mind, doesn’t care, anymore—he just clenches his jaw and asks, “You want me to admit it?” Skip is looking around, suddenly appearing nervous of the audience they didn’t have before. It makes something curl in Peter’s gut, seeing his confidence falter. “Fine,” he says, voice raising to be heard over the slight chatter in the hall, drawing Skip’s attention back to him. “I’ll admit it. You think I’m afraid not to? News flash, Skip: you don’t scare me anymore. I’m not twelve, I’m not weak or helpless. So, fine, I’ll admit it. I’ll admit that it was after a month of you babysitting me. It was after dinner, and you were watching me because Ben and May were on a date. It wasn’t my fault, even though I thought it was for so long. I’ll admit it.”

There’s a moment—one where Peter doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, and Skip seems to realize that he isn’t looking at someone he can control. He smiles, nervous. “What are you talking about, Einstein?”

“You really think I won’t say it?” Peter questions, cocking his head slightly to the side. Below the surface, all the fear and the bad memories are bubbling, but he keeps it down. He needs to.

“There’s—” Skip falters, swallows a bit roughly. “We have an audience, Einstein.”

Peter doesn’t flinch at the nickname. He doesn’t do anything, just maintains eye contact and feels as a chilling calm settles over him. Skip is right. They do have an audience—the entire school, it seems, has managed to shuffle into this very hall, and they’re all watching, whispering to themselves. Peter finds that he doesn’t care about who watches, about who hears and who sees. He doesn’t care at all. And he still doesn’t care when, voice loud and crisp is the mostly quiet air, he says, “You brought me snacks, and candy, and you let me watch movies and shows that May and Ben said I wasn’t allowed to watch yet, and you scared away bullies and made me feel like I had someone in my life who cared about me. I had already lost my parents, and my biggest hero was missing, rumored to be dead, and you took advantage of that. You took advantage of me. Because you never cared about me, Skip. You only ever cared about yourself, and now—now you want me to, what? To stop talking? To be quiet, because people will hear? Tough shit, Westcott. I don’t care who hears. You—You fucking molested me. You raped me.”

In the moments following those words, there’s silence. No one in the hall talks, or moves—most of them don’t even breathe, only standing, stock still and frozen with shock. Skip is staring at Peter, his features now twisted in horror and surprise—he didn’t think Peter would say it out loud, not at all, but definitely not like this. Not with so many eyes, so many ears. But Peter—he doesn’t even acknowledge anyone else.

“You ruined me,” Peter goes on, the calm in his voice starting to twist with anger. “I was twelve, and I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t—I couldn’t look in the mirror. Do you understand what you did to me? It wasn’t a game, it wasn’t—I never wanted that. I told you to stop, every single time, I begged you and you just—you laughed, and you kept going, for—for months. And I blamed myself, do you get that? I blamed myself, because it had to be my fault, right? I didn’t say no enough, I didn’t fight hard enough to push you away, I never told Ben or May or the teachers at school, because you convinced me that they would hate me for it. God, and I was twelve. I was—you destroyed everything about me, and I was _twelve.”_

In the midst of everything, Peter forgot the presence of his friends, of Harley—remembers, suddenly, because Harley goes from simply settling a hand on Peter’s waist to wrapping his arm around him, hugging him, almost, from before—and that’s how Peter realizes that his knees are shaking, that he isn’t quite as steady on his feet as he thought he had been. Ned is blinking away tears while clenching his jaw, and Michelle has a glare so sharp aimed at Skip that it’s a miracle she hasn’t drawn blood with looks alone. Flash is tense, rigid, and silent. Peter can’t see his face from where he’s standing.

Focusing back on Skip, Peter swallows the lump forming in his throat and goes on, telling him, “But staying ruined… that would mean that you win. So, I fixed it. I fixed me. I—I found purpose in something, and even when—even when I lost Uncle Ben, I managed to get through it. I stopped trying to keep people out—I let people in, and I built a family, one that’s bigger and stronger than anything I had before, and—and Flash said it best, I think. You really don’t know how screwed you are. Because the family I have now? They’re already on their way, and trust me, they are protective. You’re done for.”

“One minute out,” Harley speaks up, his tone tight and clipped as he looks down at the alert from Friday on his phone, which he manages to fish out of his pocket with the arm that isn’t wrapped around Peter’s waist. He turns the screen off and turns his glare to Skip, spitting out, “You’re lucky the what happens to you is Peter’s choice, or I’d be kicking your ass right now.”

Flash flexes his fingers, curls them into his palm. “I don’t think you’re that lucky, actually,” he says, then uses his fist to swing—clocks Skip in the jaw hard enough to send him sprawling on the ground, just in time for the doors down the hall to get kicked in and—the Avengers, all of them, suited up and looking ready to kill, file into the space. The silence from before is broken, as chatter and shouts of surprise fill the air, students automatically moving out of the way as the heroes approach, and then Tony is there, the nanobots retreating back into the suit in order to reveal his head, the worried look on his features as his eyes take in the scene, looking—confused, as well. “What the hell is going on?”

Peter melts with relief, feeling—finally—safe again, with almost everyone he considers family all here. He stumbles away from Harley, reaches for Tony, feeling childish but needing a parental kind of comfort, and Tony doesn’t hesitate, lets the rest of the suit melt back into its encasement and catches Peter when he falls into his chest. “Skip,” Peter croaks, knowing that, despite never telling Tony about everything, Tony did his research into Peter’s life and his past after the Vulture incident. And he’s right to assume that Tony knows, because a furious kind of recognition flickers across his features and he tightens his hold on Peter, holds him closer, more secure, a deadly look in his eyes as he glares at Skip.

Skip, who is cradling his jaw and looking up at the group of heroes with fear. “I—I didn’t do—”

“Nat,” Tony says, voice sharp. Instantly, Natasha steps forward, calm and dangerous. Tony tilts his head in a nod, gesturing to Skip, and tells her, “This guy takes advantage of twelve year old kids. You wanna do the honors of arresting him?”

Something in Natasha’s eyes harden, understanding and anger reflecting there. “My pleasure,” she says.

“No, I—” Skip splutters, tries to scramble back when Natasha steps forward. “I didn’t do anything! He’s lying! You can’t arrest me, you don’t even have any proof!”

Tony parts his lips, looking ready to retort something harsh, but Peter beats him to it, turning his head from where it’s tucked into Tony’s shoulder to point out, “There are security cameras in every corner of this school. And, before Flash got here, you were saying some pretty revealing things. The fact that Mr. Stark is the one who donated so much money to the school for them to get better security means that he only has to ask for the tapes. Why do you think I was letting you talk so much shit? It wasn’t for fun.”

Any remaining color drains from Skip’s face, and then Natasha is yanking him to his feet, not bothering to be gentle as she shoves him into the wall, taking out a pair of handcuffs and securing them on just the right side of a little too tight, before leading him down the hall and out the doors.

As soon as the door swings shut and Skip is no where to be seen, Peter breaks down, clutching onto Tony and soaking in the comforting words he offers, soothing fingers running through his hair and the gentle way that Tony rocks them back and forth. “You did such a good job,” Tony murmurs to him—behind him, Sam and Wanda are already working on clearing out the students that are still mingling in the hall, watching and whispering and taking pictures, while Rhodey makes his way out the doors with a look of rage, probably meaning not so fun things for Skip. Ned and Michelle have both taken a step back, Ned openly crying while Michelle tries to offer him quiet comfort, but Flash is still standing stock still, tense and frozen as he stares after the direction Skip was taken.

It takes a few minutes, but Tony manages to help Peter calm down enough that he pulls away, wiping at his face with the back of his hands and the ends of his sleeves. Tony presses a kiss to his forehead, murmurs something softly that makes the ends of Peter’s lips twitch up into a grateful smile, and then Tony is walking away, flanked by Steve and Vision, while Peter turns around on shaky legs. At first, his eyes search for Harley, but he stops on Flash, finds himself moving without meaning to, until he’s standing by Flash’s side and barely managing to rasp out, “Why’d you hit him?”

Flash clenches his jaw, unclenches it, and looks down at the floor. “I had a nanny,” is all he says.

“Oh,” Peter breathes, and then—moves forward, hugging Flash and whispering, “Thank you,” and, “I’m sorry.” Flash looks shocked for a minute, but he melts into the embrace, curls his arms around Peter and leans into him and—he doesn’t mean to, but he starts to cry, too. Because he gets it. What Peter is feeling. They understand each other in a specific way, now—a way that none of their other friends can ever know.

That’s what Harry walks in to—Michelle comforting a crying Ned, Flash and Peter sobbing into each other’s shoulders, and Harley, blinking away his own tears as he hovers a couple feet away. Harry takes a few steps closer, nervous and concerned. “What…?”

Flash pulls back at the sound of Harry’s voice, and Peter doesn’t hesitate to push Flash over, knowing that’s what Flash needs right now. Knowing, because the second that he knows that Flash is secure in Harry’s arms, he’s spinning around and falling into Harley’s, his legs tired, his body aching with every thud from his fractured heart. He knows Flash needs that comfort. He knows because he does, too.

Harley catches him, lowers them to sit on the floor. He cries with him.

And, once they’re ready, he’ll help Peter stand up again—and he’ll help him walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> i know there are a significant anount if typos—honestly, idk if i have the mental energy to reread this and edit it but i’m planning to go through and fix up typos and shit sometimes this week. i’ll update this note when/if i do.
> 
> but anyway, the next installment for this fic is going to be very different in tone and shit!! as in, the next one shot is gonna be super fun and focus around the introduction to a few characters that have not been written into this series yet >:) i’m very excited for it and where it will lead !!


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